Girl Most Likely
by LizBee
Summary: Fifteen years after he defeated Voldemort, Harry Potter finds himself protecting Snape's daughter from unknown threats. But plans are being put in motion, and people are beginning to move against Harry and those he cares about.
1. Chapter One

**Girl Most Likely**   
by LizBee

Summary: Fifteen years after he defeated Voldemort, Harry Potter finds himself protecting Snape's daughter from an unknown threat. But while Harry is wrestling with his inner demons, plans are being put in motion, and soon, he won't have time to indulge his premature mid-life crisis. 

Notes: Over half of this fic has been written, but since I had rashly given myself a deadline, I decided to assuage my conscience by posting the first two chapters now. The rest will be posted when it's completed. I promise, it will be finished. This story means a lot to me. I'm not going to let it go. Having said that, I _really_ don't like being pestered for updates. I'm sorry, it just irritates me. 

Characters: are the property of J. K. Rowling. Further notes are at the end of each chapter. 

The beta readers: FearlessDiva sat me down and made me figure out how the plot and characterisation were linked. Melina is the Great White Unnecessary Word Hunter. Jerie is the World's Greatest Beta Reader.. ChristineCGB, Jemima and Lori who were pushing for a _Return to the Blue Lagoon_ crossover, but I didn't listen. Seema helpfully figured out what the Big Plottish Secret was. Rebecca J. Anderson made encouraging noises in all the right moments. Seema and RJ helped me with the French. This wouldn't exist without them.   


  


**Act One**   
_A peak you reach_   


**Chapter One**

  
  


Two men, talking over a cup of tea: 

"Is it enough, do you think?" 

"It'll have to be. Anything more, and it would be too obvious." 

"From what I've heard, you'd have to wear green and silver snakeskin and carry a sign saying 'I Love The Dark Lord' before he'd notice anything." A snort. "Gryffindors." 

"You underestimate him. That's a mistake." 

"He's one man." 

"He's the most powerful wizard of our age." A chuckle. "But, yes, one man. It's enough." 

*** 

Harry saw her in the shadows: a thin, cloaked figure, retreating into the darkness as the Aurors made their way down Knockturn Alley. He caught a glimpse of black eyes in a pale face, and felt a flicker of recognition. He knew this girl, or at least, he knew who she was. And what she was. 

Her gaze had a familiar focus that made Harry's neck prickle, as if she could see through their Invisibility Cloaks. 

He'd often wondered the same thing about her father, he recalled. 

Somehow, the denizens of the Alley had caught wind that something would happen that night, and the only others around were a huddled man, smelling strongly of carris seeds, and a shabby prostitute sheltering from the rain. Neither showed any interest in the hidden Coterie as it moved through the night with a whisper. 

They paused in a cavernous shadow, where a Malfoy-owned carris den once stood. 

"_Now_." 

At the whispered command, the seven Aurors removed their Invisibility Cloaks. Most tucked them into the pockets of their robes; Harry found an unoccupied pocket in his Muggle-style combat pants. He had no desire to get tangled up in voluminous fabric on a dark, rainy night like this. 

With the darkness and the rain, Harry couldn't see more than three feet in front of him, but he could sense Ron, excited and worried, and Dennis Creevey, who was fearless and eager to begin. The others, less known to him, were merely a blur of anticipation. As always, Harry found himself straining to identify individuals, like a non-musician attempting to follow an individual instrument in an orchestra. 

_Stop that_, he thought. Empathic abilities were unmeasurable, but he could never shake the feeling that his were duller than the rest. 

_And whose fault is that?_

Harry abandoned the useless line of thought. 

He'd never been particularly musical, either. 

Silently, the Coterie advanced, taking up their positions. 

"Open up on College business!" 

Harry watched from the shadows as Enid Zabini leaped forward kicked the door open, demonstrating yet again why a Slytherin with an inferiority complex should never be allowed to watch Muggle action movies. It was all Ron's fault, he mused as he watched his best friend follow Enid through the door. He smiled at the memory of that weekend of beer, bad Muggle movies and Chinese food four years ago, back when they were mostly relative strangers. Ron had been determined to share his newly discovered love of film with the world; the weekend had gone further in developing a cohesive Coterie unit than six months of Ministry-sponsored "camps". 

Lisa and Michael entered next, moving more cautiously than their seniors. Next were Dennis and Marion; Dennis bore that slightly manic grin made Harry think twice about considering taking up the Dark Arts as a casual hobby, or even jaywalking. Enid wasn't the only one who'd watched too many Bruce Willis films. Marion merely looked determined, bless her homicidal, Hufflepuff soul. 

Harry, as the Coterie's Second, was the last to enter, ready to move quickly if a trap was sprung. That was the way of the Coterie: you formed emotional, empathetic bonds, and you looked after your colleagues. 

Before he moved, he turned slightly, but no one met his gaze from the shadows. 

Inside the shop, he found the greatest anticlimax of his career: Janus Borgin quietly allowing himself to be magically bound to the Portkey that would take him to the College's cells. He looked up as Harry entered, meeting his eyes through a curtain of limp, greying hair. 

"Potter. The Ministry has planned quite a party indeed. And I'm not even dressed." 

Borgin was wearing a worn, grey nightshirt, although there was fresh ink on his fingers, and heat radiated from the teapot on the counter. It looked as though he'd been enjoying a peaceful midnight tea party before the entrance of the Aurors, although there were fresh potions in the cauldrons around the counter. 

Two teacups rested beside the antique cash register. 

"Good evening, Janus," Harry said conversationally, peering into a cauldron with interest. He looked up at Enid. "Is the rest of the building secured?" 

"I'm on it." _And don't tell me how to do my job, you great Gryffindor prat_, she didn't say. Harry took the hint, and hung back as Ron, Marion and Lisa returned to confirm that yes, the shop and the flat above it were completely secured. 

"Even the regular wards are down," Lisa added, biting her lip. She glared at Janus and added pointedly, "one might even think he knew we were coming." 

"One might even think he had something nasty up his sleeve," said Dennis. He, like everyone else, was still carrying his wand. Borgin had a history of springing nasty surprises on Coteries. This sullen compliance was unprecedented, and Harry found it worrying. 

"One might even think I was tired," Borgin said. "Take me away, if you will," he said to Enid. "I have no further purpose here." 

Enid nodded, her eyes blazing with curiosity, and they both vanished. 

Over the sound of the rain, Harry could hear pops and curses as journalists and photographers Apparated into Knockturn Alley. Michael rolled his eyes. 

"Your entourage, Mr Potter?" 

"They're not _mine_," Harry snarled, as flashes began to go off in the window and the Fourth Estate of the wizarding world attempted to catch a glimpse of the Man Formerly Known As The Boy Who Lived at work. 

_See Potter. See Potter work. See Potter save the world. See Potter stare at a cauldron full of gooey sludge and wonder what it does._

He had just decided against poking it, either with a wand or a finger, when the door opened, and a journalist actually threw himself into the room. 

"Sorry about that, chaps," he said cheerfully, "but it's raining Snidgets out there, and why hang about in the wet when the story's in here?" 

"This is Ministry business," Ron snapped. "Get yourself out. Or get yourself arrested for obstructing the College of Aurors, and see how Malfoy enjoys bailing you out." 

"Mr Weasley! Hero of the Diamond Gorge—" 

"Out," Ron said, raising his wand. 

"How does it feel, playing Third Auror to the Boy Who Lived?" 

Harry retreated to the sidelines, glancing outside. Knockturn Alley was more visible now; the rabble of reporters had lit their wands and carried self-illuminating notebooks. On the other side of the narrow street, he caught a glimpse of a cloaked figure moving further into the shadows. 

_Does Daddy know you're here_? he asked the figure. 

"Not as good as it will feel to arrest you—" 

"Let him out," said Harry wearily. He grabbed the journalist by the scruff of the neck, ignoring the fact that the man was a head and a half taller than he – _walk as if you own the school, Potter, cease this ridiculous slinking around. Stand up and look me straight in the eye, like your father did_ – and made for the door. 

"Mr Potter! Allow me to introduce myself: I am Thomas DeMartiller of the _Evening Seer_—" 

"This may amaze you, DeMartiller, but I really don't care." 

The door flew open as Harry approached, and the herd of journalists and photographers straightened. 

"There," said Harry cheerfully, "that'll make the front page. That's all your lot want, isn't it?" 

Somewhat reluctantly, he released DeMartiller _without_ dropping him in a puddle, and faded into the shadows to retrieve his Invisibility Cloak. The journalists were concentrating on Borgin and Burkes; no one noticed Harry as he moved across the Alley. 

He was beside the girl, as well concealed as she in the shadows, when he removed his cloak. She spun around, cat-like, wand at the ready. He had half expected her to run away at his approach, like the near feral orphans who'd haunted the Alleyways during and after the War, but she identified him and became still. 

Oh yes, there was a lot that he recognised in this girl. 

"Knockturn Alley is no place for a teenage girl," he said conversationally, as soon as he was sure that she wouldn't flee. 

"It's no place for anyone," she said, looking past him at the prostitute and the addict, who were watching proceedings with interest. Her cloak slipped aside, revealing a flimsy Muggle dress. Harry shuddered at the thought of a girl like this in the Alley, fair game for the illegal Potions merchants, the Dark Wizards, the pimps and drug dealers. 

Although, come to think of it, that was a fair summary of her family tree. 

"Where's your father?" he asked. 

"France." She pushed her hood back, revealing very long, black hair that fell around her face, emphasising the pallor of her skin and the harsh, strong features she'd inherited from her father. 

"Does he know you're here?" 

"You _must_ be joking." 

"You should get home." 

She shifted, looking annoyed. "I Floo'd here. Now your Aurors are crawling all over the shop." 

"Well, you can't spend the night out here." 

"I _do_ realise that." 

He held his Cloak out. "Hop under here. I'll take you home." 

Harry was not a tall man, but the days when he could share his Cloak with another person were long gone. He sent the girl across to the shop, grabbed his wand and Apparated, beating her there by several minutes. 

"Jesus, Harry," breathed Dennis as he appeared. "You almost gave me a heart attack." 

"Just keeping you on your toes." 

"It's not my toes you should be worried about." 

The door opened slightly, and then closed. Dennis, Lisa and Ron raised their wands, but Harry stilled them. He cast Obfuscato – _long_ overdue, in his opinion – on the windows, ignoring the howls of protest from the mob outside as the glass went dark. 

"Well," he said, directing his words to a point somewhere near the door, "come on out, then." 

There was a whisper of fabric near the fireplace; Harry turned and found himself looking into a pair of slightly amused black eyes. 

"I thought you Aurors never let anyone get behind you," she said. 

"Let's just assume that I'm very trusting." 

Dennis, examining the contents of a concealed cupboard, tried and entirely failed to disguise his laughter. Harry ignored him and lit the fire. 

"I'll accompany you home," he said, not bothering to pretend it was a request. She nodded, reluctantly, and threw the powder into the flames. 

As he followed her into the fire, Harry heard Dennis say to Lisa, "Isn't that the Snape girl?" Then the fire swallowed him, and Knockturn Alley vanished in a haze of ash.__

  
__

_to be continued_

  
  


Lilith: originally inspired by Mary Russell, the creation of Laurie R. King. In the Russell novels, the heroine is the arrogant, brilliant fifteen year old apprentice of Sherlock Holmes. I got to wondering how a modern fifteen year old would compare; the conclusions weren't flattering. Lilith's less pleasant characteristics were softened by the influence of Dorothy L. Sayers' Harriet Vane. 

Carris seed: an addictive drug from Robin Hobb's _Farseer trilogy_, which I highly recommend to anyone bored with by-the-numbers Tolkienist fantasy novels. 

Oxford. Chosen as the site of the Snape residence since I've read more books set in Oxford than Cambridge. Said books being Laurie R. King's Mary Russell series and Dorothy L. Sayers' _Gaudy Night_, along with _Dorothy L. Sayers: life of a courageous woman_. 


	2. Chapter Two

**Girl Most Likely**   
by LizBee 

Please see chapter one for notes and disclaimers.   


  


**Chapter Two**

  


They arrived in a typical wizarding house, albeit neater and newer than the Burrow, or even the Granger-Weasley home. The first things that Harry noticed were the books. They were everywhere: on the kitchen table, on the benches, stuffed into corners and in piles next to the couch. 

"Do you want a cup of tea?" she asked diffidently. 

"Thanks. Black, two sugars." 

She made it manually, while he examined some of the titles on the table. _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6. Ars Potionis. _Several nasty looking Potions texts that made him wonder if he shouldn't be watching her _make_ his tea very carefully. 

And, tucked behind them all, there was a battered paperback: _The Boy Who Lived, the unauthorised biography of Harry Potter_. When he picked it up, it fell straight open to _Chapter Six: Snape, the Shadowy Mentor_. 

Her collection, then. Certainly not her father's. And speaking of whom ... as she handed him a mug, he asked, "When does your father get back?" 

"The fourteenth. He's attending the International Conference of Magical Educators." She stared into her drink, rotating the cup between hands that seemed almost too large for her thin arms. Her damp cloak had been thrown over a chair, revealing a gaunt frame. Slightly appalled, Harry averted his gaze from the prominent cheekbones, wrists, and collarbones revealed by her skimpy dress. Almost reluctantly, she added, "Technically, he forbade me to leave Oxford. But I wanted to see my uncle." 

"Borgin." 

"Go to the head of the class." She watched him for a moment. "I know who you are," she said. 

"Oh?" 

"Potter. The Boy Who Lived." There was a cynical note in her voice, and Harry suppressed a wild urge to look around for her father. 

"I know who you are, too," he said, and was rewarded with a surprised look, the first unguarded expression he'd seen on her face. 

"Who am I, then?" 

"The Lestrange child. The Azkaban baby. The Dementor's child." Rather apologetically, he added, "I'm afraid I don't actually know your name." 

She scowled. "I'm not a Lestrange. I was never meant to be a Lestrange, why do you think my mother--" She stopped. 

"And your name?" 

She mumbled something. Harry stared. "Did you say your name is _Lily_?" A million half-remembered rumours and thirty year old slanders flooded into his mind. 

"Lil_ith_. Lilith Miriam Susanna Borgin. My mother named me before -- before the Dementors Kissed her." 

"I knew your mother slightly," said Harry before he could stop himself. 

"I'm not surprised. She was a Death Eater, you're Harry Potter. You must have found so much to talk about." 

Yeah, well, she did enjoy torturing some good friends of mine. Harry bit his lip before the words could leave his mouth. Hermione might enjoy criticising his sensitivity, or lack thereof -- not that she was much better, really -- but he recognised the hungry curiosity in Lilith's eyes, and he knew better than to criticise much-loved deceased parents. 

It was one of many lessons he'd learnt at Snape's hands. 

"How long have you known Borgin? I can't imagine that your father encouraged the relationship." 

"Since I was twelve. We met briefly in Diagon Alley. He knew who I was. Dad took me away and forbade me to speak to him, but he sent me letters." 

"He initiated the contact?" 

"Yes. He said that Dad had no right to keep him away from his last living relative." 

"And what did you think of that?" 

She shrugged. "It was just Dad and I, and Aunt Arabella, sort of. And then there was Uncle Janus. Family. I liked that." She asked softly, "will he go to Azkaban?" 

"That's my hope. But he's been brought in before. Evidence and witnesses have a tendency to disappear, and Borgin has some pretty powerful allies." 

"He's just a businessman." 

"He's a--" Harry stopped himself. He was exhausted, and he was losing control of his tongue. Swallowing the last of his tea, he stood up. "I need to get back to the Ministry. I'll be back tomorrow to take an official statement." 

"Very well." 

"Don't go anywhere. Don't tell anyone about the raid." 

"Right." She sounded bored, but he had a feeling that she'd obey. 

"And stay away from men like Borgin." 

The last thing he saw before he Disapparated was Lilith Borgin rolling her eyes and slouching back in her chair. 

*** 

It was so bloody depressing, Lilith decided after Potter had Apparated away. The Boy Who Lived was all grown up, and far from being the arrogant scofflaw her father occasionally complained of, he was as dull and repressive as any other adult she knew. 

"Stay away from men like Borgin." 

Huh. As if she hadn't heard that advice before. 

He sounded like her father. Wouldn't Dad hate that, she wondered. Or maybe he'd approve. She never knew what he was thinking, except that it was bound to be critical. 

Merlin. Dad. Who'd be reading the _Daily Prophet_ (French edition) in a few hours, and for all she knew, her face would be splashed across the page with Potter's. Hiding in the shadows hadn't concealed her from him, after all, and if he had recognised her, others might. 

Her father would know. That she'd come to the attention of the College of Aurors. That she'd been seeing her uncle, in direct defiance of his directives. That she'd been visiting Knockturn Alley on a regular basis. 

_Merlin._

Potter might be a dull stick, another Auror in the grand hero machine, but she'd rather deal with him than her father. 

Lilith leaned back in her chair, massaging her temples. Her head was hurting, and she couldn't remember if she had any of the analgesic potion left. She buried her head in her ink-stained arms on the kitchen table, uncomfortably aware of the Dark Arts books surrounding her. Potter had probably noticed. She wondered if he knew enough about Potions to recognise that two of the books were strictly forbidden, except to authorised parties. 

Her father was an authorised party. 

Lilith was most emphatically not. 

Maybe she could share a cell with her uncle in Azkaban. 

Potter would return tomorrow. She should clear up, get a few hours' sleep. But the room spun when she stood up, and her migraine worsened. 

It was going to be a bad one. 

She managed to get to the couch in the next room without collapsing. She curled up, snuggling into the blanket Aunt Arabella had made for her when she was nine. 

Things had been simpler when she was nine. No uncles, no relatives at all apart from her father, but no migraines, or exams, or classmates happy to destroy the Headmaster's daughter. 

Lilith groaned and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the swirling lights behind her eyelids. Her uncle was in custody, Potter was returning in a few hours, and her father was sure to find out about it. 

And there was something else ... something that nagged at her behind the pain and nausea. Something she needed to remember... 

Eventually, the sound of the rain on the roof lulled her to sleep, but the nagging feeling remained. 

*** 

"The conquering hero returns," called Michael Truelake as Harry Apparated into the Coterie lounge. 

"Very funny. Is everything secure?" 

Enid gave him an amused, exasperated look. With the strain of the raid over, she had resumed the mask of an affectionate elder sister. "Isn't that my line? Though it's the second time tonight you've stolen it…" 

"Yeah, whatever. Is Borgin secure?" 

"Safe and sound. The Second Coterie relieved us." 

"How's the Snape girl?" asked Dennis. 

"A chip off the old block." 

"Oh God, kill her now," called Michael. Enid gave him an irritated look, but didn't bother reviving the old Let's Be Nice to Slytherins Argument. It wasn't unusual for Slytherin Aurors to have a chip on their shoulders, and Enid was better than most, but Michael had a knack for pushing her. 

So did Harry, now he thought of it. 

"Harry," said Enid, handing him a cup of coffee, "nice work tonight." 

"Was that work? Borgin hardly even put up a fight. I didn't _do_ anything." 

"I meant with the journalists. And Severus's daughter." 

"Ignore Harry," called Ron, "he's just an adrenaline addict. We need more jobs like that one." 

"What, boring?" asked Dennis, "aren't you the man who went haring off after Jocasta Kostakeidis without a wand?" 

"Yeah, well," Ron shrugged, "maybe I'm growing old." 

"Or up," Enid muttered. 

"Hey, I've got a family to think about." 

"Uh, Ron?" said Lisa, "I hate to break this to you, but at your birthday party, Hermione told me that your untimely death would be just the excuse she needed to become a hermit and finish her third book." 

"Yeah, but she always gets a bit crazed when she's editing." 

Enid leaned over to Harry and asked quietly, "Is there any point in questioning Lilith?" 

"Probably not. Has her uncle said anything?" 

"Of course not. He's quietly waiting for his Advocate. Makes my skin crawl." 

"Mine too," Harry admitted. 

"Speaking of Advocates, can you keep your godfather away from this one?" 

"Not a problem. Sirius reckons he won't defend the same person twice. Not for the same crime, anyway." 

"Lovely." 

"I was planning to get a statement from Lilith tomorrow, but I don't think she's important." 

"Sounds good." Enid stood up, making sure that she had everyone's attention. "Off duty, people; I'll see you all in the morning." 

*** 

Harry exhaled slowly as he arrived home, feeling exhaustion creep over him as his caffeine-prolonged adrenaline high diminished. He could sympathise with Enid sometimes, the way she concealed her true personality from all but the closest of friends. 

Like Ron and Hermione, or Marion. 

Not Harry. Not since— 

He stared numbly at his reflection in the mirror. 

"Bad hair day?" the mirror asked. 

"Shut up." 

He was thirty-three, but in these quiet moments, when there was nothing else to fill his mind, he felt older. It was almost shocking, to look in the mirror and see someone so … young staring back at him. The flecks of grey in his hair were premature; they were the only obvious signs of the stress of the last few years. But his eyes, they held his age, and more. Haunted green eyes in a strained, pale face. He'd lost weight, he realised: his clothes hung off his frame, and his cheekbones were more prominent than he remembered. 

_Ladies and gentlemen, the Boy Who Lived._

_So … have you saved the world lately? What have you done to justify your existence today?_

Like so many others lately, it was a pointless, circular line of thought. Harry turned away from his reflection and went to bed, but he didn't sleep. 

*** 

The house felt still and unoccupied when Harry Apparated into the small parlour that most wizarding households used as a magical entry point. The mid-morning light was bright, but there was no sign of Lilith. 

He wandered through the house, opening doors and listening to his footsteps echo on the wooden floors. Snape may have been out of the country, but his presence permeated the otherwise-deserted house. Despite the sunshine, Harry felt as though he were thirteen again, being led down into the dungeons for punishment. 

On a low table was a copy of that morning's French _Daily Prophet_ and some owl treats. The raid was on the third page; there was a particularly good photo of Ron leading the Coterie out of the shop. At least Lilith had avoided the attention of the media, Harry thought. 

Scrawled across the newspaper were the words, 'We'll speak when I get home. Father.' 

He paused to examine an overflowing bookshelf. Hermione would fit in well here, he decided. In fact, there was a well-worn copy of her first book right in front of him. He flipped through it, but there was no autograph, or indeed any sign that Snape was acquainted with the author, aside from some acerbic margin notes in the first chapter. 

"Potter." 

Harry swung around in surprise. Lilith was standing behind him, a towel wrapped around her head. Her face was still damp, and her eyes were oddly bright. She'd traded her flimsy Muggle dress for a more traditional gown (black, of course; he was beginning to understand her taste). The outfit made her look even more vulnerable than the other dress, for it revealed her prominent collar-bones. 

"Are you all right?" he asked, for there was a disturbing brittleness about her. Absently, he began ticking off the symptoms of illicit Potion use. 

"Fine," she said shortly. His scepticism must have been obvious, for she added, "I had a migraine. The analgesic potion removes the pain, but it makes me feel -- strange. More real than real, if that makes sense." 

"I'm familiar with the potion." He'd used it a lot when he was sixteen. Had he looked like that, he wondered, a skinny, unnaturally wakeful teenager? 

"Can I get you anything?" she asked. "Tea? Coffee? Breakfast?" 

"Coffee. Please. Black, two sugars." 

Lilith led him into the kitchen, denuded of last night's books. She made him coffee and joined him at the table with a glass of pumpkin juice. For the first time, Harry noticed the Muggle refrigerator and stove. 

Following his gaze, she said, "There's a lot of coming and going between Muggles and wizards in Oxford." She sipped her juice, slowly. Noticing the tension in her hands, Harry wondered how effective the analgesic potion was. 

Lilith was watching him as closely as he was studying her. 

"What can I do for you, Mr Potter?" she asked. 

Harry opened his backpack and drew out several blank parchments and a Transcription Quill. He quickly tested it, and showed her the resulting page to prove that it wasn't a Quick Quotes Quill. "I need a statement from you regarding your presence at the raid, your visits to Borgin's shop and your relationship with your uncle." 

"Will it be used as evidence in the trial?" 

He snorted. "We'll be lucky if Borgin stays in custody for more than a day. His solicitors will get him out. They always do." 

"Good," said Lilith softly. Then, "fine. I'll answer your questions." 

"Good girl." She pulled a face at him. Harry pulled one back, and she laughed quietly. 

"You're not nearly as dull as you make out, are you, Potter?" 

"You'd be amazed at how dull I really am." Harry indicated his parchments. "May we begin?" 

"Please." Lilith removed the towel from her head and proceeded to brush her tangled hair. 

"How did you come to be outside at the time of the raid?" 

She shrugged. "Uncle Janus knew that Dad was out of the country – there was an article about the conference in the _Prophet_ – so he owled me and invited me over. He'd promised that I could stay the night, go through his books—" She looked suddenly guilty, but recovered quickly. "Talk, and so forth. We don't see much of each other … not as much as I'd like." 

"How long were you there?" 

"Several hours, I suppose. The raid was shortly after midnight, am I correct? I can't really remember how we spent the evening. You know how time slips away when you're talking." 

"I know." 

"I was on the verge of going to bed, when his Foe Glass lit up: seven Aurors, heading our way. He told me to get home, but he wouldn't let me use the Floo network … it's traceable, I suppose, but it was pretty stupid of him, really – I mean, how else was I going to get home? Did he think I'd spend a night hanging around Knockturn Alley?" 

"In my experience, Borgin – and others like him – become remarkably selfish when threatened. Short-sighted, too." 

"Yes, but I'm _family_. I should be treated better." She shook her head and continued, "I went out the back way, and ducked through the alley beside the shop to get back to the street. But of course, I had nowhere to go after that… I lingered, thinking that he might need my help, but I had no idea what to do." 

"Admirable, anyway." 

"Stupid." 

"Well, yes. But admirable, nonetheless." 

"It was a useless notion. I abandoned it pretty quickly when I realised that you were part of the raid. Everyone knows that Harry Potter can do what he wants." 

"That's not quite true." But not far off. "Did you spend much time in the store?" 

"Sometimes. He'd tell me stories, about how he got the stuff, and what it did." Lilith removed the towel from her head and proceeded to brush her tangled hair. 

Harry glanced up. "He trained you in the Dark Arts?" 

"No. He just told me about some artefacts." She peered up at him through a curtain of hair. "Last time I checked, knowledge alone didn't constitute a crime. Otherwise, they'd have to lock up all the Aurors." 

Harry refused to be baited. "Ever deal with the customers?" 

"Sometimes." 

"Think you could identify them?" 

"Perhaps." 

"A heavy-set black man with a scar on his face in the shape of an equilateral triangle?" 

Lilith shook her head. "Doesn't ring a bell." 

"A thin woman, about forty, blond hair, yellow eyes, moves like a cat?" 

"No." 

"Blond man about my age, grey eyes, looks like a ferret?" 

"No." She offered him a challenging smile. "I've only ever seen Draco Malfoy in the _Daily Prophet_. Where he is described as an upstanding citizen, and looks nothing like a ferret." 

"Touché. Although you'd be amazed at what the Daily Prophet considers an upstanding citizen, if he holds enough shares. And I'm going to stick with the ferret descriptor." 

"He looks like an albino squirrel. Twitchy." 

Harry laughed, and she smiled in return. Not such a bad kid, really, he thought. Smart, at least. The kind of person he'd have wanted as a sister. 

The tension had been broken, and he saw her hands relax as they returned to business. 

"Did you ever meet your uncle's business partner?" 

"Lucas Burke? No, never." She frowned. "That's strange, isn't it? I mean, he only disappeared six months ago, and I've spent _hours_ at my uncle's shop over the last few years. But I never met him." 

"Very strange," Harry agreed, "although by all accounts he's more paranoid than Mad Eye Moody. Officially, he disappeared in February, but no one's actually seen him with their own eyes since last November." 

"Maybe he really loves his Invisibility Cloak." 

"Perhaps." Harry shook his head. "Thanks for your time, Lilith." 

"A pleasure, Potter. It's not every day that a bona fide hero comes around to ask routine questions of an innocent teenager." 

"What can I say? I needed a day job." 

"I didn't think they sent the Boy Who Lived out to do drudge work. They say you can pick any assignment you like." 

"Nah. They gave me that option a couple of years ago, after – after I'd been an Auror for a few years. I rejected it." 

"Was that after your wife died?" She stopped, looking horrified. "I'm sorry—" 

Harry looked down at his hands, wrapped around his coffee cup. There was still a lighter band of skin on his left ring finger; the summer sun had yet to remove that trace. Heal that scar. 

"Yeah," he said softly. "That was after she died." 

"I shouldn't have said anything." Now, at least, he'd truly cracked through her nonchalant, sulky façade; here was real remorse. It was more genuine emotion than he'd ever seen from either of her parents, and it made her seem more real, less of a copy of two people he'd hated. 

"It doesn't matter," he said gamely. He glanced down at the transcript, the faux pas preserved on the parchment. 

Harry stood up, stuffing his things into his backpack. "Thanks for the coffee," he said. Lilith watched him, her face unreadable. "I'll contact you if I need to speak to you again, and if you think of anything more, please owl me straight away." 

Lilith nodded. "There's just one thing," she said, "my father. He – he doesn't usually follow trials that closely, so he might not find out that I was there unless—" 

"We don't exactly speak," said Harry shortly. "If Snape finds out, it won't be from me." 

"Thank you." 

Harry didn't bother returning to the Apparition parlour; he grasped his wand and Disapparated from the kitchen. 

*** 

Ron looked up from his messy desk as Harry appeared in his office. 

"Harry, you idiot, you're not supposed to Apparate here—" 

"Yeah, well. I was in a hurry." 

"How was Snape?" 

"Out of the country, just the way I like him." 

"Lucky," said Ron. "Hey, check this out." He shoved a sheaf of parchments at Harry. "Enid just dropped these in – wanted Hermione or Sirius to take a look at them. It's the paperwork from Borgin's solicitors." 

"I'm no lawyer," Harry murmured, but the meaning was quickly apparent: Borgin would cooperate with the College of Aurors and the Ministerial judicial system. 

"Borgin didn't run. And now he's _not _squirming his way out of prison." 

"Right," said Ron. 

"Is he talking?" 

"Called Enid a few things I wouldn't repeat in front of Mum, but he refused to list names." 

There was a knock at the door, and Enid entered. "Ron, have you shown Harry – oh, good, you're here. Listen, Borgin wants to speak to you." 

"Why me?" asked Harry, scowling. He already knew the answer, but he would have thought that Borgin would be immune to the dubious glamour of fame, not demanding to see him, like some common dabbler. "Yeah, I'll come." 

Enid was several inches taller than Harry, and he had to stride to keep up with her. Her younger brother had been in his year at school; the whole family was Slytherin to the core, but rumours of Dark magic had never so much as touched them. They channelled their ambitions into business, and the Ministry. Harry was never certain where he stood with Enid, or Blaise for that matter; they were cool and polite, and he was … himself. He and Enid had almost been friends, once, until that whole mess with the Cabal. He had defeated that dangerous incarnation of the Dark Order, but even now, two years later, he was still counting the cost: budding friendships, his youth, his wife… 

But he trusted Enid, almost more than he trusted Ron or Dennis. Enid was dispassionate; she'd never hesitate to abandon him if it would serve some greater purpose. And by the same token, she'd never make that decision prematurely. Harry suspected that Hermione, had she become an Auror, would have developed the same skill, but Hermione had become an Unspeakable, quietly manipulating the wizarding and Muggle worlds from the confines of her office. 

Harry had no doubt which job required the greater level of courage and integrity. 

"Borgin's cooperating," Enid said, "has Ron told you that? Frankly, I'm worried. You weren't involved, the last time he was captured, but I was – and this is completely different. No violence, no threats…" 

They exited the Passageway at the other end, emerging on another floor, in another wing of the Tower. The opalescent glow of the upper levels had been replaced by something darker, more disquieting: if the upper tower resembled a white pearl, the lower levels were the black cousins. 

"He's here willingly," Enid said, biting her nails. 

"Something's after him, then?" 

"Something. Or someone. Has your girl Snape encountered Lucas Burke lately?" 

"Never met the bastard. And her surname is Borgin" 

"Confusing. And annoying. I thought we were onto something there." 

"You might still be right. By all accounts, Borgin wanted to protect Lilith from the more, uh, unpleasant aspects of his work." 

"Then he should have left her alone," said Enid grimly, and they entered the cells. 

Janus Borgin was sitting quietly in a cell at the far end, apparently absorbed in a meditative trance. Harry could see no resemblance to his late, mad sister, but there was a hint of Lilith in his chin. With his greasy, greying hair and sallow skin, Borgin looked more like Severus Snape than anyone else, and Harry remembered how closely pureblood families were related. Hell, _he_ might be related to Borgin on his father's side. 

At last, Borgin opened his eyes. "Potter." 

"Borgin." Harry leaned closer to the bars, careful not to let the charmed metal touch his skin. Even at a few inches' distance, the protective magic warmed his skin. "Something you wanted to tell me?" 

"I just wanted to bask in the reflected glory of the Boy Who Lived." Borgin smirked. "Looking a little worn around the edges, Potter." 

Harry ignored that. "I spoke to your niece this morning." 

A flicker of something – fear? – crossed Borgin's face. "Lilith. I hope you Aurors kept your filthy hands off her." 

"I think you have me confused with Lucius Malfoy. As it happens, she's safe and well, and worried about you." 

"I – that is gratifying. She's my only living relative, you know." 

"I know." Harry started to pace, feeling Borgin's eyes following him. "Why, Borgin? What would she reveal if I interrogated her?" 

"Nothing." 

"You can tell me now, or tell me under Veritaserum in a few hours." 

"You may have trouble with that, Mr Potter. I took Inveritas Potion this evening. For the next … hmm, twenty-one days, the slightest dose of Veritaserum will cause me to go into anaphylactic shock. And unless you're inclined to take up necromancy as a hobby, my corpse is unlikely to be very forthcoming." 

Behind him, Harry heard Enid swear. She took a few steps forward, her heels clicking on the stone. 

"How are you enjoying our hospitality, Janus?" she snarled. "You seem quite uncharacteristically eager to remain in the hands of the College, yet you refuse to help with our investigation. Inveritas is a Proscribed Infusion, yet you freely admit to taking it. That's three years in Azkaban already. Why are you here? Why didn't you Disapparate as soon as you knew we were coming? You can't possibly have believed that we'd mistreat a fifteen year old girl." 

"I admit it. I'm here for the food. Prison food is addictive, you know. My compliments to the house elves." 

"What are you running from, Janus?" Enid asked, almost gently. 

"Nothing." 

"Liar," said Harry. 

"We'll pull you up into the Circle if we have to," Enid said. The gentleness had gone from her voice, and Harry gave her a worried look. He had no desire to be part of a Circle if he could avoid it. _I thought _I_ was meant to be the bad cop_… 

"I'm not running from anything." Enid and Harry exchanged a look. 

"Summon the Coterie, Harry," Enid ordered. 

"Fine," said Borgin, licking his lips nervously. "I sold some tainted goods … cursed carvings from Papua New Guinea. I recovered most of them, but a few are irretrievable, and my customers … should they survive … are likely to be disgruntled." His hands were shaking slightly as he said this, and the back of Harry's neck prickled. 

Borgin reached through the bars, the hairs on his arm rising from all the magic worked into the metal. He was careful not to touch the bars as he took hold of Harry's arm. His hands were sweaty, and Harry shuddered, wanting to pull back, but unwilling to cause unnecessary injury. 

"Please," said Borgin, "you must protect me." 

His story was likely to be true, Harry mused as he returned to his office, but it wasn't the whole truth.   


_to be continued_

  
  


Certain aspects of the College of Aurors were also used in my fic "There Is No Such Place". At one point, this was a sequel, before I came to my senses. 

"Maybe I'm growing old." "Or up." From _Mirror Dance by Lois McMaster Bujold_.   
  



	3. Chapter Three

**Girl Most Likely**   
by LizBee 

Please see chapter one for notes and disclaimers.   


**Chapter Three**

  
  


Harry tried to work on the paperwork from the raid, but his mind refused to stay on course. It had been a couple of years since he'd left his paperwork until the last possible minute, but this time, he'd probably end up signing the final papers as he drank his morning coffee on the day of the deadline. 

Ron routinely pestered Hermione to finish them off for him, but for all that, he was the better Auror. Ron _liked_ his job. Harry … Harry had debts to pay off, the moral and emotional kind, which were so much more burdensome than the merely financial. 

"Harry?" 

Harry looked up from his desk, grinning at the head which had appeared in his fireplace. 

"Sirius. Mate, you have no idea how glad I am to see your face right now." His melancholy falling away, he filled Sirius in on the events of the last twenty-four hours. 

"Just promise me that you won't defend Borgin. Or Burke, if we can bring him in." 

Sirius gave him a grim smile that reminded Harry of the Shrieking Shack, and the Ministry Standoff. "Not a chance. They've had their chances." 

"Thanks." 

"So, aside from the lovely Janus Borgin, how's your day been?" 

"Odd. I spent the morning with Snape's daughter." 

"Lilith? How is she?" 

Harry raised his eyebrows. "_You_ know _Snape's daughter_?" 

"Harry, I'm the one who persuaded the Ministry to allow her to be born." 

"What? When? No, wait, I can guess when. I guess I was, uh, pretty out of it that year." 

The year after Voldemort's fall had been largely spent in a depressive stupor, punctuated by adrenaline-fuelled broomstick rides. Had it been three or four Firebolts that he'd smashed before his friends put their feet down and staged a full-scale intervention? 

"How much do you know?" 

"The outlines. The public stuff, and a few rumours, most of them pretty tawdry. Snape and Mrs Lestrange. The Azkaban Baby." Harry shrugged. "That's about it. I recognised her when I saw her, but then, she's the spitting image of her dad. I didn't even know her name until yesterday night." 

"Well, I can't say that I know the kid well, but I can tell you about her background. Want to come over for dinner?" 

"Love to. Tonight?" 

"Sure. Bring Ron and Hermione and some red wine. If I'm feeling especially nostalgic, I'll prepare rat." 

"Don't go to any trouble." 

"Trouble? Me? Don't be absurd." Sirius glanced at something behind him. "Look, I have to go. I'll see you this evening." 

*** 

That night, the three of them settled in Sirius' lounge room after dinner. 

"David Lestrange," Sirius began, "was recaptured only ten days after the fall of Azkaban. He committed suicide rather than return to captivity." He frowned at something beyond Harry's perception. "I … don't all together blame him." 

Hermione leaned forward. "I did some research when Harry told me what this was about – stop laughing, Ron, _someone_ has to take these things seriously! Anyway, I can't be sure, but I'm fairly certain that it was Snape who arranged the recapture." 

"That sounds about right," said Sirius. "Now, Eugenia Borgin Lestrange was a madwoman, but she was as calculating as all hell." 

Ron shivered, stroking Hermione's arm for comfort. "I remember." 

"She believed – passionately – in the inherent rightness of Voldemort's campaigns, and the inevitability of his success. And since, in the sixteen years she'd spent in Azkaban, her brother had fathered no children, she decided to do her bit for the pure-blooded cause and maintain the family line." 

"With Snape," said Ron. 

"With Snape, although no one knew that at first. The child was conceived three months before the Fall of Voldemort." 

"How could he do that?" asked Hermione, "conceive a child, knowing what kind of mother it would have, and what kind of world it might be born into? Leaving aside the probability that Snape knew about the Final Campaign at that stage." 

"Snape's a cold blooded bastard, Hermione, and every bit as calculating as Eugenia." Sirius drained his wine. "I doubt he really cared about the fate of the child." He refilled his wineglass, and poured Harry a refill, although Ron and Hermione abstained. 

"In July, a month after the Defeat, Draco Malfoy turned himself into the Ministry, claimed to be under Imperius and arranged for a large group of his fellow fugitives to be recaptured. Among them was Eugenia, now four months pregnant. 

"This is where I came in." 

"I did wonder how you were involved," said Harry. 

"Oh, Snape asked for my help." 

Ron choked on his coffee. "Snape? Asked? _You_?" 

"In the sense of backing me against a wall with his wand at my throat, yeah. Told me that I owed him a favour, and I was bloody well going to pay it back. I persuaded the Ministry to postpone the Kiss until the child had been born." Sirius frowned. "I couldn't talk them out of keeping Eugenia under the Dementors, though, so Lilith achieved minor celebrity as the Azkaban baby." 

Hermione scowled. "They were idiots to trust the Dementors at all, after the Fall of Azkaban. They should never have built the place at all, but to continue using it, after its ineffectiveness had been proved—" She paused and smiled slightly. "Sorry. I've been having this argument far too often, lately." 

"You're preaching to the choir, Hermione, remember?" said Sirius, "I'm your chief tenor." 

"I know, I know…" 

"Why did Snape suddenly care about the fate of the baby?" asked Ron. 

"I have no idea. I don't exactly have an insight into the man's mind, Ron. Nor do I care to." 

"Maybe he had grown to care about it," said Hermione softly. 

"I don't know," said Sirius. "I can tell you that he never visited Eugenia, either at Azkaban or St Mungo's, and up until a couple of weeks before the birth, he was planning to give the baby up for adoption." 

"Why—" began Hermione, but Sirius waved his hand. 

"I can actually answer this one. I was there for the whole thing." He smiled at the memory. "He was in my office, conferring with me about MacNair's trial, and Arabella Figg came storming in, calling him every name under the sun. Told him he was a selfish bastard who minced around looking like a martyr while avoiding as much responsibility as he possibly could, and didn't he think that there were enough orphaned and unwanted magical children around without adding more, and what if the adoptive parents found out where she came from and who her real parents were? 

"Arabella was the only teacher he ever listened to at school – frankly, we were all a bit scared of her – and he listened to her now. So he was present for the birth, and he took the child." 

"Were you at the birth?" asked Hermione. 

"I was." Sirius frowned. "They had the Dementors waiting outside, ready to give the Kiss … Eugenia held her baby for a moment, suckled it and named it. Then she looked up at Snape and said, 'I've done all that I could. I don't suppose for a minute that you'll do the best thing by her, but try not to mess it up too badly.' Snape … Snape looked at her. Didn't say anything. And then the Dementors were brought in." 

"How did the baby react?" asked Hermione. 

"She was quiet. A bit unnatural, really. Too subdued. Harry, now," Sirius grinned, "I was with Harry pretty soon after he was born, and he would have shrieked his little lungs out of you'd brought him within a mile of a Dementor. Not that James and Lily would have allowed it…" 

"What happened after that?" asked Ron. 

"Mrs Lestrange was Kissed, and I left." 

"You stayed for that?" asked Harry before he could stop himself. 

"I went to school with her," said Sirius simply. "I knew her when she was just a snotty, snobby eleven year old. To leave would be … contemptible. Snape left, and took the baby and Arabella with him. That's all I can tell you." He grimaced. "Snape didn't exactly name me godfather." 

"Does she have godparents?" asked Ron. 

"I don't know. Arabella might be her godmother. You'll have to ask her. But I lost track of Lilith and Snape after that – there was the little matter of _my_ godson to worry about." Harry blushed and ducked his head. "You should try asking Moony about Lilith; he taught her for three years." 

"Thanks," said Harry. "I will." 

The conversation turned to other matters, but Harry's mind kept returning to Lilith: the oddly silent newborn, and the girl who stood in the rain in Knockturn Alley. 

At the end of the night, Hermione caught Harry's arm before he could Disapparate. 

"Listen," she said, "about this business with Borgin – technically, I'm not supposed to interfere with internal College affairs…" 

"But you'll make an exception for us, won't you?" 

She sighed. "Yes. I'll see what evidence I have tomorrow morning." 

"Thanks, Hermione." 

"Any time. But promise me one thing in return." 

"What?" 

"In the matter of Lilith Borgin ... I want you to exercise some discretion." 

"I don't know what you're talking about." 

Hermione sighed, looking as though Sirius' Apparition parlour was the last place where she wanted to have this discussion. "This is the first time in ages that you've taken an interest in something," she said, "a real interest, I mean, not just showing up for work and getting the job done, like you have since – since—" 

Harry braced himself. 

"—Since Ginny died. And I don't want you to go overboard – I don't want you to get hurt, or get in trouble." 

"Hermione," said Harry softly, "what do you mean?" 

Ron, he couldn't help noticing, hadn't Apparated in to find out what was keeping Hermione, and Sirius was still lurking in his lounge room, which implied that they'd cooked this up together, probably while he was in the bathroom. _At least they're not staging another full Weasley intervention_, he tried to tell himself, but he could feel his anger rising anyway. 

"I've met her twice. I took her home from Knockturn Alley, and I questioned her later." 

"Yes, but this is _Snape's_ daughter, and you and he have a history. People talk." 

"Stop beating around the bush. Explain it in words of one syllable for the village idiot." 

"You're not an idiot," she said automatically. "And chaperone has three syllables." 

"I need a _chaperone_ to talk to kids now?" 

"If we were Muggles, it would be standard procedure for all official dealings between law enforcement and minors. Particularly female minors." 

"Yeah, but I wouldn't hurt her. You know me, Hermione. What do you think I am?" Despite his efforts, he couldn't keep the hurt from his voice. _How can she possibly think—_

Ah, but they all had their ghosts: Harry had Voldemort, Ron had Mrs Lestrange, Hermione had Lucius Malfoy. 

"I know you. But others don't. And, Harry, think for a minute: who owns controlling shares in the _Daily Prophet_?" 

"Draco Malfoy." 

"Just so." 

"I don't like this," Harry spat. 

"I know. Neither do I. But I don't think that Lilith is the main issue you should be dealing with. Worry about keeping Borgin in custody, Harry. You yourself said that she's probably not important. I can understand why you'd be curious – don't think I didn't see all the parallels – but don't get sidetracked." 

"I liked her." 

"I know, but you seem to be setting yourself up for some grand crusade. And Harry, not everyone needs saving. Not even the daughter of two Death Eaters, no matter how many unsavoury relatives she has. 

"I didn't even—" 

"Yes, but I know you." She gave him an affectionate, exasperated look. "You get curious, then you get worried, and then we waste valuable study time trying to prove that Snape is guilty of some absurd crime—" 

"Oh come on, you make it sound like I'm eleven again," Harry snapped. To his surprise, Hermione smiled. 

"You know, that's the first time in ages that I've seen a real emotional response from you?" 

"You manipulated—" 

"You let me." She hugged him, to show that there were no hard feelings. "You'll do fine, Harry. I trust you. I just worry about you …" 

"Don't. I'll be fine. I am fine. And don't worry about Lilith, either. I just needed some background, in case she has to give evidence." 

"I know. I guess – I overreact sometimes, you know that. I'd be interested in meeting her." 

"Want to play chaperone?" he asked. It came out with more bitterness than he'd intended, and she recoiled, looking hurt. Harry Disapparated before she could answer. 

His flat smelt of dust and isolation, but he fancied that there was a faint trace of Ginny's perfume in the air. An illusion, of course; she'd been dead for nearly two years now. Her photograph gave him a worried look as he swept past it, but he ignored her. It. 

He had schooled himself to avoid thinking about her, to sleep rarely and deeply, and to spend his days in a flurry of activity that kept his mind busy. 

Exhausted, he was asleep within minutes of lying down. 

*** 

_I overreact sometimes, you know that._

Yes, Hermione thought, but she should have been a bit more subtle. She was supposed to be an Unspeakable, right? Supposed to be clever, and cunning. 

She should have remembered how much Harry hated to be manipulated, even when it was for his own good. Should have remembered that he was an adult, no longer the scruffy boy who needed someone to look after him, even if that someone was a bossy girl his own age. 

Oh well. She'd make it up to him, next time they spoke. 

She lay awake for a long time, Ron's comforting arm thrown over her body. Automatically, she traced the scar that ran down his forearm (a Laceration Curse two years ago; three days in St Mungo's). Rolling over, she found the starburst scar on his neck (Vena Hex last year; a month in St Mungo's) and the puckered skin over his heart (Torreatus Curse in January; five weeks in hospital and another fortnight of bed rest at home). 

"Keeping a tally?" Ron asked sleepily. 

"No. Yes." Hermione sighed and burrowed closer to her husband. "I just worry." 

"I'm fine." 

"You're reckless. You're lucky." 

"I know." He twirled a lock of hair around his fingers. "We won't go back to active duty until the Borgin case is over, Hermione. And I'll be careful from now on. We'll be fine." 

"I know." Hermione remembered something else. "About Harry…" 

"Harry will be fine, too." 

"I just—" Hermione wrapped her arms tightly around her torso. "I think we should tell him before the others." 

"Huh? How does that relate to—?" 

"I think we should tell him before we tell your family. Maybe on Friday…" 

"What I don't understand is why we have to tell the whole family at once anyway." 

"Ron…" Hermione shook her head in the darkness. She loved the Weasleys with the filial greed of an only child, but she suspected that Ron would sometimes be glad to be rid of them. 

No, that was unfair. He'd mourned for Ginny, just like everyone else, but he didn't realise how lucky he was to have a large family. Hermione had only her mother left, and Ron, and the Weasleys, and Harry. And she was damned if she was going to lose any more of them. 

She opened her mouth to tell him that, but a soft snore told her that he wouldn't be interested. 

*** 

Hermione and Ron's house was a study in academic cosiness, Harry decided. There were none of the chintzy knick-knacks that Aunt Petunia had regarded as essential to the creation of a proper domestic atmosphere, but nearly every surface was covered in books or photographs, or plants, or keepsakes, not to mention Hermione's Kneazles, the offspring of Crookshanks. In many ways, it would have been a Muggle house, except that the photos moved, and the books covered topics as diverse as _The Dark Arts and the Middle East _and _The Care and Feeding of Winged Horses_. Despite the fact that both Hermione and Ron were liable to spend days away from the house, it felt like a home. 

Hermione greeted him in the Apparition Chamber, kissing his cheek and whispering an apology for her words the other night. Harry hugged her; he'd almost forgotten about the incident. She led him into the lounge room with a nervous grin. 

"Sit down," she said. 

"Have a drink," added Ron. They exchanged a look of deep amusement. 

"What are you planning?" asked Harry. 

"Poor Harry," said Ron, opening a Butterbeer and sniggering. "Another couple of years and he'll be as bad as old Mad Eye. Jumping at shadows and turning Malfoys into ferrets … no one but his Foe Glasses and godchildren to keep him company." 

"Ron, you'd be the last person to complain if I turned Malfoy into a ferret. And I am _not _paranoid, but you both have the most disturbing look in your eyes, and – wait." Harry's mind caught up with his ears. "Godchildren?" 

Hermione smiled. "In March, yes. Well, one, at least." 

"For starters," said Ron. He, too, was grinning like an idiot, and he looked as though he was contemplating another generation of Weasleys. Christmas would be an expensive time of year for Molly and Arthur, if Ron and Hermione decided to compete with Percy and Penelope… Harry was arrested by the mental image of small children with red hair and brown eyes, and a light scattering of freckles over the nose— 

_Dammit, they didn't have to do this to me_. The unworthy thought was immediately suppressed – _they're doing it for each other, they want me to be happy_ – and he shaped his lips into a smile. 

"Congratulations," he said. "Gonna name it after me?" 

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Harry, one in five magical children are named after you." 

"We're taking a new approach all together," Ron added. "Neville Weasley. Has a nice ring, doesn't it?" 

"You're not serious." 

"'Course not." Ron laughed. "But it was worth it for the look on your face." 

"We haven't picked a name, yet," said Hermione. 

"Well, if you won't name it after me," Harry sighed and placed his hand over his heart. Hermione looked as though she was steeling herself to consider _James Weasley_. "Promise you'll give a bit of thought to 'Ludmilla'." 

"No way," said Ron 

"Constantine?" 

"Not a chance." 

"Eustace? Thomasina? Draco?" 

"No, no and _definitely not_." 

"Spoil sport." 

It was ridiculous, he thought at home later. Ridiculous to begrudge his best friends a family of their own … 

But he couldn't bring himself to look at the magical clock on the wall over the fireplace, with the hand that pointed at _home_, and the other that hung, slack, pointing at nothing at all. 

*** 

Ron and Hermione announced their pregnancy to the rest of the family at the Burrow, over a barbecue the next day. Harry lurked around the refreshment table, watching the Weasleys cluster around the happy couple, feeling more than a little out of place. 

_They told me first because they didn't want me spoiling the party today._

_No. They told me first because I'm their friend. Getting a bit paranoid, aren't we, boy?_

But he hadn't felt truly comfortable with the Weasleys since Ginny's death. No one had had blamed him for not saving her, but that had only made it worse. These days, he avoided as many Weasley gatherings as he could. 

"You're family," Molly had said when he tried to apologise. But he didn't quite know what that meant; every time he thought he'd grasped the concept, some new facet emerged. 

"Hey." Steve Weasley threw himself into the rickety chair beside Harry's. His gangly adolescent body somehow moulded itself to the chair; he swung his legs over one side and leaned against the other wooden arm. It looked frightfully uncomfortable to Harry, but Steve was constitutionally incapable of sitting in a chair like a normal person. Not for the first time, Harry wondered how Percy and Penelope could have produced such a madcap child. 

"Big news on the baby front," Steve said. 

"Indeed. Going to baby-sit for your little cousin?" 

"Naw." Steve wrinkled his freckled nose. "My sisters can do that." Over in the children's area, Mary-Anne and Charlotte were happily bossing their younger cousins around. "I'm too old to hang around babies." He made it sound as though he were only at the barbecue, indeed, only in the country, as a favour. 

Harry suppressed a smile and said, "How old are you, now? Fourteen?" 

"Fifteen." 

"Oh, sorry." A thought struck him. "Hey, do you know Lilith Borgin? You'd be at school together." 

"Borgin? The Thestral? Yeah, I know her. Well, we see each other sometimes. She's a bit of a nutter, though. Why?" 

"I met her recently. She seemed like a nice kid. Why's she called the Thestral?" 

"'Cos she might as well be invisible, and she's unlucky. The Slytherins call her that. They reckon she tells her dad what they get up to." 

"And does she?" 

"Buggered if I know. I only see her in a couple of classes. And prefects' meetings. She doesn't talk a lot." 

"Shy?" 

"Insane. Margie Leary reckons that her mum put a whole lot of charms on her, so Lilith'd be evil as well." 

Harry thought of Lilith's cool, black eyes, so much like her mother's. But all he said was, "You shouldn't be so quick to judge people by their parents. Or by rumour." 

"Yeah, whatever. Anyway, she got really mad when Margie said it to her face. Drew her wand, looked absolutely murderous. But Professor Travers caught her. I heard that she was almost suspended. But Margie reckons that Snape was more interested in expelling _her_." Steve looked like he wanted to say more, but he was distracted by the approach of his father. 

"Steve! I hope you're not bothering Harry…" 

"He's no bother, Percy," said Harry, "no bother at all." 

Percy opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by a cry from one of the children. "Steve, go and help your sisters." 

"But, Dad—" 

"Stephen. Now." 

Steve slouched off with a scowl reminiscent of his youngest uncle. Percy gave Harry a what-can-you-do? look and wandered off to mediate a brawl between Fred and Angelina's Daniel and Charlie's twins, who were using teeth and nails to compensate for a five-year age disadvantage. Bill and Fleur were having a quiet but intense debate near the apple trees; they were about due for their third break-up. Arthur was happily interrogating Muggle-born Penny about the mobile phone, and Diane, the newest daughter-in-law, was looking completely lost amidst the chaos. In the centre of it all, Ron and Hermione were looking radiant and oblivious. 

_One big, happy Weasley family. Ha._

Harry leaned, calculated all the possible ways that Dark wizards could attack the barbecue, and wondered when he could make his excuses and leave. 

*** 

Something about the French Defence Against Black Magic teacher made Snape's hackles rise. On the first day of the International Conference of Magical Educators, she had greeted him with a very small smile, and when Madam Maxime introduced them, murmured, "We've never met, of course, but we have a number of mutual friends, yes?" Her small smile had widened, and she'd gone on to flatter him about a paper he'd published last year, on the development of shields for the Arcane Curses. She complimented him on his research; she spoke intelligently about Potions, and all the while, her eyes sparkled at some private joke. 

Snape didn't trust her at all. 

"It is a pity," she said, at the beginning of the conference's second week, "that you never had the chance to forge a career as a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts. I have the greatest respect for Albus Dumbledore, but I cannot help but feel that your talents were wasted teaching Potions." 

"Dumbledore … felt that my talents lay elsewhere. In time, I came to agree with him." 

Truth be told, he had never craved the position as much as rumour suggested, but a well-known chink in his armour, an unfulfilled ambition … these were convenient things for the world to believe in. 

Or at least, they had been convenient twenty, thirty years ago. 

"Such a waste," purred Dupont. "Your writing is quite extraordinary. I don't suppose I could persuade you to write a textbook, at least…?" 

Snape permitted himself a smile. "Perhaps." 

"And I hear you have a daughter, yes? Will _she_ take the position that has eluded you?" 

"I hope not," said Snape sincerely. "Her talents and ambitions are literary. Teaching holds no glamour for her." 

"Pity. I have heard," and now Dupont watched his face carefully, "that she would bring a number of special talents to the job." 

Snape kept his face blank and murmured something neutral. 

He knocked at Dupont's door late that night, carrying a rose, two glasses and a bottle of wine. She smiled, like a spider contemplating its prey. Or its mate. 

He toasted her, drank, and said, "I had not expected to find someone like _you_ at this conference." 

Dupont took a sip of her own drink and paused to savour the rare, expensive vintage. "It took a great deal of work for the Dark Order to infiltrate Beauxbatons," she agreed, and froze. Ropes shot from Snape's wand and bound her, spilling her Veritaserum-laced drink on the carpet. 

"How did you do this?" she demanded, "I saw you pour, I saw you drink—" 

"The potion was in the glass, not the bottle," Snape snapped. "You pathetic amateur, I've had dozens of chances to poison you. Come to that, why didn't you take Inveritas? You could have avoided this whole business all together, if you weren't prancing about with your coy games and your vapid threats. Is this what the Order has come to, that it sends silly chits like you to deal with _real_ wizards?" 

"The Order will arise again – we have plans – we have direction—" 

"What plans?" 

"I don't know … there are only rumours…" 

"As I expected. You know nothing." Snape pulled Dupont's hair, forcing her to look up at him. "Now. What is it you think you know about my daughter? 

*** 

Snape threw a handful of powder into the fire and made a call. His friend Apparated to the hotel within minutes, taking in the scene with a sigh. 

"Severus, what _have_ you been doing?" 

"_Your_ job. Glass of wine?" 

Jean-Pierre regarded him cautiously. "I'd rather not. _Le Ministre_ frowns on its Aurors accepting drinks from master poisoners who have apparently engineered the _most_ extraordinary scenes." 

"You weren't this paranoid the last time I saw you." 

"Hazard of the job." 

Snape settled himself in an armchair and said, "I'd hardly have called you here if I had something to hide." 

"What if you wanted to quickly establish your story?" 

"With the aid of a Wit-Weakening Potion?" Snape took a sip of the wine. 

"You could have prepared a poisoned glass in advance." 

Snape smiled thinly. "Alcohol counteracts it. I see that Potions is as ill regarded at Beauxbatons as at Hogwarts. For Heaven's sake, Jean-Pierre, sit down." 

Jean-Pierre slowly sank into the other armchair, looking at Dupont curiously. "Remind me never to join you on a double date." At Snape's sneer, he quickly added, "joke. What's her story." 

"She's a member of the Dark Order. Not a particularly competent one." 

"I don't suppose you have any proof? Convenient tattoos, 'If found, please return to Sauron, Lord of Darkness', that sort of thing?" 

"I'm sure she'd be delighted to share her background, given enough Veritaserum." 

"No trace of which will appear in her body now, of course." 

"Of course not." 

"Because _Le Ministre de Sorcierie_, like the Ministry of Magic, does object to lone Potions Masters handing out restricted potions like that." 

"And I wouldn't want to upset _Le Ministre_." Snape drained his wine, ensured that the empty vial which had contained the Veritaserum antagonist was concealed in his robes, and stood up. "I have business to attend to in the south. I may need assistance. I'd prefer to deal with you, not your colleagues." 

"You have nothing to fear from an Auror, these days." 

"Nevertheless." 

"And you say _I'm_ paranoid." 

"Just so." 

Snape Disapparated, returning to his rooms. It had been a long time since he'd done this, becoming part of a hunt on a moment's notice. Many of his robes were too well-made to avoid notice; in the end, he Transfigured them into something more nondescript, and gathered his money. 

The letter to Lilith took only moments to write; he contemplated sending a note to Arabella, but thought better of it. She would insist on joining him, and that would mean bringing Lilith, and _that_ would be foolish beyond measure. 

*** 

She didn't like to admit it, but Lilith had been badly frightened by the raid on her uncle's shop, and her encounter with Potter. She spent a week lurking at home, sitting up in her room, listening to music and perusing her father's library. 

She received three owls in that time. One was from her father, letting her know that he'd be spending more time in Europe than originally planned. Another came from Roseleen Parkinson, and one was from Aunt Arabella, hinting that she could probably make the effort to travel two streets to visit her godmother. She scribbled dutiful replies to all of them, but made no mention of anything more significant than the last thing she'd eaten, or the book she was reading. 

A week after the raid, she was roused from a daze, a half-dream of snakes and mud, a pregnant woman singing to her child in the rain, by the sound of someone – or something -- moving around downstairs. Silently, she grabbed her wand and slipped downstairs. 

At Hogwarts, they called her the Thestral, because she could move silently, keeping to the shadows. Other Slytherins had learnt to speak cautiously, for one never knew when the Headmaster's daughter might be listening. 

In her five years at school, she'd only repeated something to her father once, and that had saved a student's life. 

But no one else knew that, and it suited Lilith to be feared. 

She moved down the staircase, silent but for the pounding of blood in her ears. 

Lounge room. Empty. 

Kitchen. Empty. 

Library. Empty. 

Lilith paused, trying to remember whether that pile of books had been there earlier. Her memory was useless, sometimes, especially after a migraine. 

She moved on. Her father's study. 

The door was ajar. 

He never left the door open. 

Never. 

Almost afraid to breathe, Lilith moved forward and burst into the room. The door opened fully, knocking into a bookshelf with a loud bang. 

Empty. 

And now she'd let the intruder know that she was there. 

Lilith froze and considered her options. Perhaps she could light a fire, Floo straight over to Aunt Arabella's... The little jar of Floo powder sat on the mantelpiece, gleaming in the moonlight. Lilith took a step towards it, and stopped. 

Something invisible brushed past her, and the hairs on the back of her neck rose. 

"W-who's there--?" 

There was no answer, only a faint popping sound as the intruder Disapparated. 

She couldn't move. For a second, she thought she'd been cursed, but then she was able to force her muscles to relax, and she collapsed on the floor in a shivering heap. 

*** 

Arabella greeted Ron with a smile, a hug and a slice of inedible cake. Ron, remembering his year in her class, was instantly wary. 

"Thank you for coming to see me, Ronald," she said, pouring him a cup of tea. "It's quite lonely for an old lady on her own…" 

Ron couldn't find it in himself to be sympathetic; he knew perfectly well that Arabella ran a boarding house for young witches going to university in the Muggle world. Arabella was a wily old Auror, and she was at her most dangerous when she claimed to be feeling her age. 

"Anything for my favourite Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher." 

"What's young Remus got to do with this?" 

Ron grinned. "Well, he's out of the country at the moment, so he doesn't need to know…" He pushed an inquisitive Kneazle away from his shoes. It was all very nice to be given the Felinoid Sniff of Approval, but he was _not_ a kitty toy, thank you-very-much. "What can I do for you, Professor?" 

"Please, Ronald, it's Arabella. Or Mrs Figg, if you can't stand being on familiar terms with your old teacher." Professor – Arabella – Mrs Figg sat down carefully. "It's about my goddaughter, young Lilith. And our mutual friend Mr Potter." 

"Um…" 

"I notice that none of you young louts in the College bothered to inform me that you picked her up in Knockturn Alley last week, by the way. And I don't suppose Harry sent an owl to Severus, either." 

"Probably not." Ron shifted. "Look, Harry dealt with Lilith, not me. Why aren't you talking to him?" 

"Because _he_ still thinks I'm the Wicked Witch of Magnolia Crescent. _You_, on the other hand, have a small ounce of common sense, not to mention a wife who manages to be sensible enough for all of you. Anyway, Severus and I are agreed that Lilith and Harry are … not a good combination. 

"Why not? Harry seems to like her. I haven't even met the kid." 

"It's complicated, dear. And while I think you're a lovely boy, I doubt that Severus would want me sharing his personal matters with you." 

"All right. But what about Lilith?" 

"I just want to know, has Borgin said anything about her?" 

"Not really. He told Harry to keep away, but that seems to be a popular theme. Why?" 

Mrs Figg contemplated her tea and said quietly, "Someone entered Lilith's house the other night. Nothing was taken, no damage was done, but Lilith got enough of a fright that she came to me and admitted she'd been in Knockturn Alley. And Lilith's not the sort of girl who confesses her sins easily, Ronald. She's like her father in that." 

"What do you want me to do? I could go over the scene, but it's more of a job for Magical Law Enforcement." 

"No, no, I've done all that. I've also reinforced the wards and I'm keeping Lilith close by. I just wanted to make sure I haven't missed anything obvious in Borgin." 

"Nothing that I can see. We've been looking into Burke's disappearance, but if he's alive, it looks like he's in Greece. And none of Borgin's other usual allies have involved themselves at all. It's all depressingly quiet." He sipped his tea. "Do you want a Coterie to investigate. It's not the usual thing, but for _you_--" 

"No, no, that won't be necessary. I can protect her myself, you know that." 

"I don't doubt it." 

"Anyway, it might be nothing. Just a nasty Slytherin prank." 

"You don't believe that for a second, do you?" 

"No. But I don't need any help, Ronald. I just wanted some information." 

"Yeah, well, you got that. Thanks for the tea." 

Ron was about to Disapparate, when he heard footsteps coming down the stairs. He turned, and found himself face-to-face with Lilith Borgin herself. 

_Bloody hell_, he thought, sick to his stomach,_ she looks just like her mother._

He had spent a month as Eugenia Lestrange's prisoner, seeing her every couple of days. She had haunted his nightmares for two years afterwards. Lilith had none of her beauty; indeed, she was the ugliest girl Ron had ever seen, all nose and limbs and jutting bones. But her cool, assessing eyes and oddly generous mouth: those were Eugenia's. 

She studied him, leaning against the doorframe. Arabella gave Ron a worried look, but he ignored her and met Lilith's eyes. 

"You must be Ron Weasley," she said. 

"Must I?" He made no move to shake her hand. "Harry's told me about you." 

Lilith's face was briefly transformed at the mention of Harry's name, opening up and becoming both younger and more mature. 

_Got an admirer, have we, Mr Potter?_

"Please give him my regards," she said, her face closing up again. 

"I'll do that." 

She looked to Ron like a serpent contemplating a rat. _I'll bet he has to speak to her in Parseltongue_, he thought. Something about her made his skin crawl, something beyond her history and heritage. He had no doubt that she was thoroughly steeped in the Dark Arts. 

"Tell him," she said thoughtfully, "tell him I said hello." 

"I will." 

As he Disapparated, Ron heard her say, "Aunt Arabella, do you have any Analgesic Potion? I've got such a headache…" 

_Yeah, serves her right._

Harry had always had migraines following direct encounters with Dark Magic. The kind of direct encounters where he was casting the curses himself. 

_I reckon that Harry should be the last of Snape's worries._   
  
  


_to be continued_

_Madam Dupont_: named for one of the French teachers at Malory Towers. Ah, Enid Blyton, without whom my life would be devoid of French stereotypes… 

_"If found, please return to Sauron, Lord of Darkness."_ An alternative translation for the inscription on the One Ring, don't you know. From an American video chain's advertisement for LotR. Never let it be said that I don't draw my references from a wide variety of sources. 


	4. Chapter Four

**Girl Most Likely**   
by LizBee 

Please see chapter one for notes and disclaimers.   


**Chapter Four**

  
  


He often dreamt of Voldemort, especially in the summer months. He had once asked Hermione about it, and she suggested that it was close to the anniversary of Voldemort's rebirth in 1995, and that his subconscious was recalling the summer that followed, when he had ridden at Voldemort's side in his dream state, while the Dark Lord assembled his forces for the coming war. Harry had pointed out that he never dreamt of the Third Task, or of that summer, specifically, but changed the topic when Hermione suggested that he see a psychologist. 

_Post-traumatic stress disorder is nothing to be ashamed of_, she had lectured to his retreating back. _And you have better reason than any of us._

That, he knew, was a lie, and her advice was hypocritical in the extreme. Hermione had been Lucius Malfoy's prisoner, and as far as Harry knew, had spoken of her experiences to only two people: Ron and Molly Weasley. Sciences of the mind weren't especially advanced in the wizarding world, and no one he knew cared to see a Muggle counsellor. Neville Longbottom was changing that, _would_ change it in the next decades. But for now, he was just an apprentice mediwizard with an eccentric interest in Muggle psychiatry, whose connections and background had allowed him to run unusual research projects in the course of his apprenticeship. 

Anyway, if Harry wanted to spill his guts, Neville wouldn't have been his choice of … victim. Ginny, now, Ginny had known all his secrets, but then, she knew his dreams better than anyone. They had shared a bond, with each other, and with Voldemort. 

Voldemort had claimed Ginny in the end. 

Harry lay awake in the early hours of the morning, turning these thoughts over in his mind. He had dreamed of Snape, pouring blood into a cauldron from Tom Riddle's diary, while Lucius Malfoy held a knife to Hermione's throat and Eugenia Lestrange tore slivers of skin from Ron's face. Snape had been lecturing him on the uses of blood, pure and Muggle-born, in Dark potions, but everything had felt subtly askew, and it wasn't until after he'd woken up that he'd realised that Snape was speaking Parseltongue. And all the while, Voldemort skirted the edges of his awareness, seeking weaknesses, an entry into the waking world. 

The room grew warmer as the sun rose, the temperature increasing far beyond the norm. Harry cast Cooling Charms and tried to get back to sleep, but that was impossible. The College of Aurors had it wrong, he decided; putting a Coterie on desk duty between arrest and trial would lead to death by inactivity, instead of protecting them from attack. He'd go mad, lying here in the heat, while his mind turned in pointless circles… 

In the end, he grabbed his broom and went flying, far above London. The echoes of the dream faded, but the heat remained. 

Two days later, the heatwave had worsened. The _Daily Prophet_ landed the scoop of the year when it published a series of confidential letters to the Minister of Magic, in which a team of unnamed weather wizards demanded the release of certain Azkaban prisoners in return for the resumption of normal weather patterns. 

Harry was only mildly surprised when he learnt that Hermione was co-ordinating the Ministry's response. The heat was accompanied by the sort of humidity that Harry associated with the hideous summer he'd spent in Singapore when he was 25, and almost overnight, the cost of Cooling Charms cast by Charms Masters tripled. 

Harry cast his charms himself, finding that they were strong enough that he didn't even need to change his usual mode of dress. Ron complained that seeing him wander around in long pants and worn sweatshirts was almost worse than the heat itself. 

With Borgin's case stalled until his Inveritas Potion wore off – or until one of the College's resident Potions Brewers found the antidote that had eluded modern wizardry for centuries – the First Coterie had a lot of time on their hands. Harry spent long hours sparring with his colleagues in the College gymnasiums, practising the difficult co-ordination of movement-enhancing spells with the movement itself. Sore and exhausted – for his sleep remained disturbed – he escaped into Diagon Alley one Monday, muttering vague excuses about necessary errands. He wasn't the only one; Michael had gone to Brighton, citing family duties, and Marion was visiting a certain magical library in the Cotswolds, seeking an obscure cross-reference for the evidence against Borgin. 

Even with the heatwave, the Alley was crowded. Florean Fortescue was offering discounted ice cream to anyone who could bolster his Cooling Charms; that elderly wizard could no longer maintain long-term spells on his own. Harry's charms earned him a boysenberry swirl and a grateful handshake. He managed to escape before the crowd at large caught a glimpse of his scar. In safe obscurity, he made his way through the Alley, finishing his ice cream and remembering summer shopping trips of his adolescence. The people around him moved with a sense of security that had been missing in his last years of schooling. Even with the threat of magical ecological terrorism (as the _Prophet _termed it, and he knew _exactly_ which Muggle-born journalist was responsible for that phrase, thank you, Colin Creevey), there was laughter and open movement in the streets. Harry's Auror-instincts twitched, but he forced himself to relax. He'd bought this safety, had paid for it in blood. 

Now, he should enjoy it. 

"'Arry!" 

Harry swung around at the familiar voice. Heads turned as others recognised the tall, beautiful blond woman, and the man she was addressing. 

"It's him," he heard someone say, "Harry Potter!" 

"Where?" 

"Over there – the scruffy little fellow in Muggle clothes." 

"That's him? He looks so … weedy." 

"Sorry about that," said Gabrielle as she finally pushed through the crowd. 

"It's okay," he said. "But let's go inside." He grinned, with only a touch of bitterness, "unless you don't want to be seen disappearing into a private corner with Harry Potter." 

"Harry, if I didn't want to be seen with you, then I wouldn't have called out." In a normal speaking voice, her French accent was almost unnoticeable, a result of the three years she'd spent at Hogwarts, and her years in England since she got married. 

"It's not so much you," he said as he steered her down a small alley, "as your husband." 

"What about him? And where are you taking me, anyway?" 

"I know a place." 

The Gryphon had a tendency to move around, but it was currently situated in what Harry suspected was an old cellar. Not that it was obvious; the interior decorations remained the same regardless of location. According to Sirius, the polished cherry tables and dark-red stained glass windows had been there since the dawn of time; 1975 at least. 

Gabrielle wrinkled her perfect nose as Harry drew his wand and pointed it at a pile of garbage, but she smiled when the garbage resolved into a doorway, and Harry led her into the small club. 

"I've never been here," she said. 

"No, you wouldn't have. It's for Gryffindors only -- and their guests, of course." 

"It's lovely." 

Despite himself, Harry was gratified to hear this praise from the most beautiful woman of his acquaintance. He'd never had any romantic interest in Gabrielle -- he'd known her since she was eight, after all -- but unlike many, he respected her. 

"Private, too," he said. "Journalists have to turn their quills in at the door." 

"Harry..." 

He shook his head. "Don't try to apologise for him, Gabrielle. That's not your job." He examined the menu that had appeared on the table. "You should try the fish--" 

"Harry." Her voice was very firm. "If you don't want to discuss Draco, then don't bring him up." 

"I just wondered if this would create problems for you, meeting me in public like this." 

"As opposed to meeting me in private?" If her sister's laugh was silvery and delicate, then Gabrielle's was a low, golden chuckle. "Draco would never allow anything that reflected badly on him to be published." 

"That's ... not precisely what I meant." 

A house elf appeared by their sides, wearing the neat red and gold livery (it clashed with his socks, which were an unfortunate shade of mauve, but Harry knew better than to criticise a house elf's clothing) of the Gryphon. 

"Is sir and madam ready to order?" it asked. 

They ordered quickly: the fish and a Gillywater for Harry, spiced milk for Gabrielle. 

"Interesting choice," Harry said. 

"I'm pregnant." 

"Ah." 

Their drinks arrived; Harry took a gulp of his. Gabrielle smiled slightly and sipped her milk. 

"Does he know?" 

"Of course." 

"And..." 

She rotated her glass between her fingers, and Harry was reminded of Lilith Borgin. _Children, he thought, procreation, futures, offspring... Good God, _Malfoy _is going to be a father_. 

"He's pleased," she said finally. "And proud ... he wants to do better than his own father. He's ... taking a great deal of interest." She smiled ruefully. "I liked it better when we largely ignored each other." 

"Proud papa Draco." 

"Don't laugh. He might be a good father. He's not a bad husband, you know." 

"Just a bad person." 

"Harry..." 

He leaned back in his chair. "I never wanted you to marry him, Gabrielle, you know that." 

She smiled slightly. "You were most insistent on the subject, yes. I was really afraid you were going to embarrass me at the wedding." 

He snorted; only Ginny's restraining influence had kept him from sweeping the bride-to-be out and locking her in an attic until she came to her senses. "I don't like him. I don't trust him. And I _truly_ don't want my friends to end up married to him." 

Their food appeared, and they ate in silence for several minutes. 

"Are you happy?" Harry asked. 

"In my marriage, or about my pregnancy?" 

"Don't they come together?" 

Gabrielle giggled. "You're very sweet, Harry. I've never met a naive Auror before." With a pang, Harry remembered the angelic, delicate nine-year-old he'd once known. There was no strain in her Veela-perfect face, but her laugh was suddenly brittle. 

So. Another thing Malfoy had damaged. 

"I have to admit," said Gabrielle softly, "I find myself hoping that the baby will ... improve things." 

"What's he doing?" asked Harry. "If it's Dark, I can try to -- hell, we've had Borgin in custody for nearly three weeks, haven't we? Why can't we try Malfoy?" 

"Harry. There are no Dark Arts involved here. Amazing as it may seem, a marriage can fail without the involvement of Dark magic." She shrugged. "We're just different people ... I was so young when I married him, and I thought that ... some things didn't matter." 

"Like the fact that your husband's a manipulative arsehole?" 

"Like the fact that I was marrying him for all the wrong reasons." She sighed. "I loved him ... I still do love him. And I know you don't believe it, but he does love me." 

Harry snorted. 

The conversation turned towards lighter topics: the grand transcontinental romance of Bill and Fleur (whose latest break-up had taken place only six days ago, in the wake of the family barbecue; the twins were taking bets on the likely duration), Harry's upcoming birthday (Ron and Hermione were planning a surprise birthday party; Harry was busy preparing to act surprised) and names for the baby. (No, Gabrielle did not think it would be a good idea to name it after Harry. Or Hermione. Or _any _Weasleys.) 

"Listen," Harry said as they made their way back towards Diagon Alley proper, "I know what Malfoy marriage contracts are like. If you want to get out, and you can't--" 

Gabrielle touched his arm and said, "I appreciate the offer, but ... look, you can't save everyone, alright? And not everyone needs saving." 

"What do you mean, save everyone?" 

"Just that you think it's your duty to run around rescuing everyone around you." 

"That's not true." 

"If you say so." Harry opened his mouth to argue, but she went on, "Draco wouldn't invoke the contracts. He loves me." 

"People can fall out of love." _You certainly have_, he didn't say. 

"Harry. The Delacours are one of the most powerful families in France, and we are Veela. Not full Veela, but -- we stand by each other. Draco won't invoke the contracts." 

It might have been a trick of the light, but suddenly, her face seemed oddly avian and dangerous, and Harry reluctantly remembered that Gabrielle Delacour Malfoy wasn't completely human. 

They made a striking pair as they pushed through the Diagon Alley crowds: the Boy Who Lived and a quarter-Veela. Harry ignored the gasps and avoided making eye contact, until he spotted a pair of familiar figures. 

"Have you met Professor Snape's daughter?" he asked impulsively. 

"The Dementor Baby? No." 

"Well don't call her _that_," he said as he pulled Gabrielle towards Lilith and Mrs Figg. He introduced everyone properly, only stumbling over Mrs Figg's title. She'd been _Professor_ Figg as well, after all, and as nasty a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher as he'd ever had. Oddly enough, that was what had led him to trust her: everyone else, from Quirrell to 'Moody', had gone out of their way to be nice to him, and only Remus Lupin had been genuine. 

Still, trustworthy or not, Mrs Figg had never been a friend to Harry. Oh no, she'd been right along Snape whenever he was calling for Harry's expulsion, and now she was raising his daughter. Charming, the way these Slytherins stuck together… 

"I'm surprised to see you out here, Potter," she said now. "What on earth do they teach Aurors these days?" 

"_You're_ out here." 

"_I'm_ retired. Whereas you are a target for every Dark wizard who wants to make a name for himself." 

"No one is going to attack me," Harry said, and turned to Lilith. 

As if on cue, the world exploded, and whatever Mrs Figg was going to say was lost in the screams. Harry managed to throw Lilith away from the centre of the blast. Then everything went dark, and he collapsed.   
__

_to be continued_


	5. Chapter Five

**Girl Most Likely**   
by LizBee 

Please see chapter one for notes and disclaimers.   


**Chapter Five**

  
  


Though blinded – temporarily, he hoped – Harry climbed to his feet. "Lilith? Gabrielle?" he called over the screams around them, "are you okay?" Belatedly, he added, "Mrs Figg?" 

Gabrielle replied in French; her wand touched his hand, and his sight returned. Around them, witches and wizards were crumpled on the ground, some sobbing, some moaning in pain and fear. Blood was pouring from noses and ears, and Harry realised that his own face was slick. He wiped the blood from his nose, cast a protective charm over Gabrielle, and looked around. 

They had been standing within a few metres of the centre of the attack, which had thrown them several feet away. The atmosphere was still bright, charged with magic, small green particles hanging in the air. They were like miniature fireworks, very painful to the skin. Harry's lunch churned in his stomach, but he forced himself to keep moving. 

"Coerceo Curse," he remembered Alastor Moody telling him in the horrible hours after the attack on Hogsmeade. "Sucks all the magic out of an area, and then returns it explosively. Just like a Muggle bomb." 

Someone clutched his arm, dragging him back to the present. "Please," the witch moaned, "it's not You-Know-Who back, is it? Not again." 

"Not again," Harry promised grimly. 

There was nothing left in the centre of the blast area, just an empty space that made Harry's skin crawl. The air felt dead here, and he was careful not to enter the perfect circle that the curse had created. 

Around him, Aurors, medics and journalists were Apparating. 

"Harry!" Ron called, "you okay?" 

"Yeah. Vision's a bit strange, and my sinuses are going to explode." 

"Mr Potter!" cried a journalist, "did you have any warning of the attack? Is that why you were in Diagon Alley?" 

"Of course not! I was having lunch with an old friend." Harry glanced behind him, where Gabrielle was helping with the wounded. 

"Ah. And what is your relationship with Mrs Malfoy?" 

"They're just good friends," drawled a cool voice. The journalist flinched under Draco Malfoy's icy stare. Malfoy sneered at Harry. "Go off and find a real story, O'Connor. Potter's not news – he just has this knack of appearing at the scene of a disaster." 

The journalist made herself scarce. 

"And what are _you_ doing here, Malfoy?" asked Harry. Ron placed a restraining hand on his arm. 

"Making sure that my wife is all right. You understand, I'm sure. Not that you did a particularly good job with—" 

Harry was ready to draw his wand and curse Malfoy into the ground, when Ron said, "Harry. Mrs Figg – over there." 

They made their way across the ruined Alley. Ron dropped to his knees beside Mrs Figg, taking her hand and looking pale. The indomitable old woman was unconscious, and she looked every minute of her eighty-seven years. 

A couple of feet away from Mrs Figg, Lilith Borgin lay, staring at Harry through a curtain of bloody hair. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. 

"Medic!" Harry called, "we've got two more wounded over here!" 

The medics were all busy, but Gabrielle came over. Malfoy watched her work, an oddly tender expression on his face. 

"Mrs Figg is too badly hurt," said Gabrielle, "I don't know what to do." 

"Out of the way," ordered a mediwitch, pushing past Ron and Harry. "I need to get this one to St Mungo's. Alverson—" she waved at a colleague—"get that girl to hospital. Courceo Shock. Nasty case." 

Harry was swaying on his feet as the doctors took Lilith and Mrs Figg away. Gabrielle was in Draco's arms, smearing blood all over his expensive robes as she silently wept. Harry looked away. 

"Harry," said Ron softly, "you should get to hospital, too. You look pretty bad." 

"The blood? It's just my nose." 

"Yeah, and about thirty Courceo Burns. Go. We can take it from here." When Harry hesitated, Ron added, "for God's sake, go. Unless you think that a few new curse scars would help track down whoever did this." 

Malfoy softly snorted as he Disapparated. 

"Fine," Harry said. "And thanks. For not letting me stir anything up with Malfoy." 

"I'm just getting dull in my old age. Now go, Harry, for God's sake—" 

Harry Disapparated. 

*** 

By virtue of his identity, and the rather shocking amount of blood on his face and clothes, Harry was treated quickly, and then dismissed to lurk in the halls. In the confusion of the emergency room, he was unable to find Lilith, and he was wondering what to do next when he heard a familiar voice. 

"Harry!" 

"Neville!" 

"If you're here about Professor – I mean Mrs Figg, she's still unconscious," said Neville, adjusting his neat business robes, which had evidently been charmed to conceal bloodstains. 

"And Lilith? The girl with her?" 

"Sleeping." 

"When will she wake up?" 

"A couple of hours, probably. She wasn't badly hurt." 

"And Mrs Figg?" 

"Her injuries were a little more severe. She'll be in here for a couple of weeks. I wouldn't normally be dealing with emergencies. Technically, I'm still an apprentice medi-wizard, Muggle degrees not counting for much around here," Neville continued as they moved down the corridor, "but there were so many casualties … I haven't seen anything like this for years." 

"It was pretty ugly on the scene, too. And look, if you could make sure there are guards around Mrs Figg and Lilith, I'd appreciate it." 

Neville frowned. "I don't have that kind of authority, Harry. Is that a request as a witness, an Auror, or as the Boy Who Lived?" 

"All at once. They were closest to the centre of the blast, and Arabella's made a lot of enemies." 

Neville's mouth tightened as he asked, "What about the Snape girl?" 

Harry shrugged. "Instinct." He felt a wave of anger as he recalled her broken, bleeding body in the centre of the carnage. She was an innocent, a bystander, a _victim._ She was as much a victim of the war as Harry's parents, or Neville's. The thought that someone might seek revenge for her parents' sins through her was sickening. 

"Listen," he said, "is there any place I can wait around for Lilith to wake up?" 

"May I offer you the hospitality of our refectory? The house elves make the worst food in Britain, but there's a startling array of caffeinated drinks and energizing potions." 

Harry suddenly had a better idea. "How are your parents these days?" 

Neville grinned properly for the first time. "Pretty good. They've recovered most of their adult memories, and are looking at a permanent discharge some time in the next few months." 

Harry whistled. "You've done amazing work, Neville." 

"I don't know … I wish I could have done it faster, or sooner…" 

"Nah. If the wizarding world gave out Orders of Merlin for medical magic, you'd definitely be up for something. Come to think of it, I might propose it to Hermione. She'd approve of an award for research." 

"Yeah, but she'd win it herself. So, you want to visit my parents?" 

"Will that be okay?" 

"They'd love it," said Neville confidently. 

*** 

Frank Longbottom had once been a large, powerful man, but thirty years of hospitalisation had left him pale and puffy. He was lying on top of a comfortable-looking bed, wearing neat hospital robes and examining a book. 

Harry had seen the Longbottoms several times, both before and after Neville and his colleagues had finally begun to heal them. This was the first time that Frank had looked up at him with recognition in his eyes. 

"James – no, that's impossible, isn't it." His voice was very soft, and a touch uncertain. 

"Harry." 

"Yes, James and Lily's little boy … I think you've seen me before?" 

"A couple of times." Harry took a seat beside the bed as Frank sat up. "It's good to finally meet you properly, sir." 

"Frank, please." He indicated the book in his lap; it was _The Voldemort Years_, one of the more reputable books on the subject. "They tell me you're an Auror, now." 

"I am, yeah. Since I was about twenty-two." 

Frank smiled. "I joined the College straight out of school … Voldemort was rising, and I wanted to help – wanted to be one of the elites." 

"That's … admirable," said Harry, although he wasn't sure if that was the response Frank wanted, if he wanted a response at all. 

"That was pride, Harry. Sheer, damnable pride." Frank shook his head. "I paid the price for it, in the end … I just wish that they'd left my Janet alone." 

"I don't think you can hold yourself responsible—" 

"You must have been taught by Snape, like Neville," said Frank suddenly. 

"Er – yeah, I was." Harry grinned. "We used to compete for lowest marks in Potions, before—" Harry floundered a bit – "you know, the Memory Charms were broken. Neville melted more cauldrons, but Snape hated me more." 

"I knew him, at school. Snape. And the Lestranges … Rosier. Wilkes. And your parents, and their friends. They were younger than me, but I knew them." 

"I know. Sirius told me." 

"When I was an Auror … I don't have all of my memories back, you know, but some things are so _clear_ … I've remembered them for years. We were given a lot of latitude, we Aurors." 

"I know." Harry had a nasty suspicion that he knew where this was going, and he desperately wished that he'd braved the bad food in the refectory, or volunteered to clean bedpans, or simply moved to China as soon as school was over. 

"We captured Snape … ooh, eight months before Voldemort fell. We knew he was a Death Eater; he never even bothered to deny it. But we needed names, so we … he spent four days in Azkaban, and everyday, my Coterie visited him. We formed the Circle, and we took turns … we took turns…" He stopped, swallowing. 

"I understand," Harry said. 

"No, I don't think you do. It was allowed, you see, because sacrifices had to be made … I felt a bit of a hero, really, giving up my soul for the benefit of society. Snape … was not the first. 

"He lasted the first day, but by the second, he was telling us … all sorts of things. That he was working for Dumbledore, and he'd already given the names, and there were other forces at work … he said that Dumbledore had a plan. 

"We thought he was lying. 

"By the third day, he was giving us names, but he kept telling us to ask Dumbledore. Me … it was me he was talking to. He knew me, after all. 

"And by the fourth day, he wasn't even coherent." 

"What happened, sir?" 

"He was so consistent … my Coterie disagreed, but I kept wondering – if it was a lie, surely he would have changed his tune by now. 

"And if it was the truth…" Frank shuddered. "I went to see Dumbledore. And I'd barely had a chance to say, 'We captured Severus Snape, and he keeps telling us to speak to you…' Did you ever see Dumbledore when he was angry, Harry? _Really_ angry?" 

"Three times." 

"I'll never forget it. He said nothing … nothing at all. Just picked up his wand, stood up, and gestured for me to follow him. I followed him down to the school gates, and we Apparated to the docks, where the boats to Azkaban left. He stood at the prow of the boat, in the wind and the rain … I was cold, and I wanted to go inside, but I was scared to leave his side. 

"We were both soaking when we reached Azkaban, and cold. His robes were ruined. He walked through the corridors in silence, and I followed him … there were Dementors all around us. 

"He threw Snape's cell door open … I've never found out how; those locks are supposed to be unbreakable. But then, Dumbledore was more powerful than Voldemort in those days. He walked into Snape's cell, and knelt down beside him – Snape was barely twenty-one, you know – and hugged the greasy brat like a son. 

"I've never forgotten that. Not in thirty years." 

Harry licked his dry lips. "You did the right thing in the end, sir." 

"Small consolation." Frank smiled grimly. "The Lestranges knew about it, of course. That's … that's why they chose me." He touched Harry's arm. "I've never told anyone this, Harry. Not even Janet. Or Neville…" 

"I won't tell anyone, sir." 

"Thank you…" 

Frank settled back on his pillows, visibly exhausted. "I suppose everyone tells you that you're like your dad." 

"Yes, sir." 

"Well, it's true. But there's something of your mother about you, too. You could tell Lily anything." 

Personally, Harry suspected it had more to do with his fame, and people's desire to get close to it by sharing their private lives with him. 

Ginny, now, she had been someone you could confide in: reserved, non-judgemental, trustworthy. 

Perhaps something of that gift had rubbed off on him. He could think of worse heirlooms. Harry's throat was tight as he said, "Thank you, sir." 

Harry escaped from Frank as quickly as possible, feeling sick to his stomach. _Aren't we the great hero, Potter? You follow in the footsteps of petty torturers. What a fine heritage, what a fine way to repay your parents' sacrifice._

He was pleased to see a guard outside Lilith's room, a young man wearing Magical Law Enforcement robes. He jumped to attention when he saw Harry. 

"Sir," he said, beaming. "This area is secure. Sir." 

"Good work," Harry murmured. "Is there a doctor around?" 

"Down there, Sir." 

The doctor was a man of middle years. He wore a Muggle-style lab coat over his robes; it contrasted oddly with his bright orange wizard's hat. 

"Mr Potter," he said, speaking softly and rapidly, "am I to understand that you are taking responsibility for the young woman in Ward Three?" 

"Um … sure, why not? Until you get a hold of her father, anyway." 

"Yes, Doctor Longbottom explained who she was. But Professor Snape cannot be reached, sir." 

"Can't be reached? What, can't you owl him? He was supposed to be back on Friday." 

"The owl we sent circled the hospital and then returned. We contacted Professor Vector, since she is his Deputy, but she said that he left the Conference in France on Monday, and that he would be returning to England late." 

"And he's made himself un-findable?" Aside from his daughter, Snape had no family that Harry knew of. But the Death Eaters had been closer than family, and the Ministry had always suspected that more than a few were keeping a low profile in Europe. _And it would be just like Snape to go hunting, instead of calling out the cavalry_. "Look, I have an idea where Snape is. The second he's contactable, I'll make sure he hears of this. Until then, yeah, I'll take responsibility for Lilith." 

"Thank you, sir. Her injuries were not severe – we will release her tomorrow morning. Mrs Figg, I fear, will remain with us for at least a fortnight." 

"Will she recover?" 

"She is an Auror, Mr Potter, or at least, she was. We have seen a great deal of Mrs Figg over the years." With a very small flicker of humour, the doctor said, "I predict that she will be making unreasonable demands of her doctors and herself within ten days." 

"I'm glad to hear that." And he was, he realised, despite his ambiguous relationship with the old woman. "Can I see her?" 

"Not yet." 

"What about Lilith?" 

"Miss Borgin will be unconscious for several hours. But you may sit with her, if you wish." 

"Thanks." 

Harry returned to the darkened room, telling the young guard to grab something to eat. He ignored the hospital chairs and conjured something more comfortable, glad of the peace. 

The attack had been deliberate and targeted, he decided. But not necessarily planned in advance; the Coerceo Curse needed only an hour of preparation before it could be fatal. Such things depended on the strength of the caster, of course. Harry mentally ticked off a list of witches and wizards who could have cast the curse at that strength on a moment's notice. Himself, definitely. Possibly Sirius, Hermione, Snape. The Minister of Magic. Tenebreas Lux. Draco Malfoy, perhaps. 

His mind paused at that; Malfoy _had_ appeared on the scene rather quickly. He certainly hated Harry, and had no love for Arabella or Snape. But no, this wasn't Malfoy's style. He dealt in shadows and subtleties. And he hadn't been associated with a direct attack since the Fall of Voldemort. Harry suspected that he'd arranged certain other incidents over the years, but he had no proof, nothing more solid than a schoolboy grudge, festered and swollen. 

But no, the attack probably hadn't been impulsive. Someone had seen him – or Lilith, or Arabella – on the street, and gambled that they'd still be present when the Curse was ready to be completed. 

_I hope Enid remembers to have someone check the vantage points._

Lord, he was tired. And angry, and sore. He leaned back and watched Lilith sleep. Her face was open and relaxed, framed by messy black hair. She looked like a sculpture, the work of an eccentric, but highly skilled artist. The prominence of her nose normally cancelled the effect of her long, full mouth, but now Harry was free to stare. 

She was not beautiful, he decided, but she was compelling. One day, perhaps, she would be extraordinary, with a grace and power that made mere prettiness seem tawdry and artificial. Now that she was still, masking her adolescent clumsiness, he could see the woman she would become. 

_Someone should show her the records of her mother. Teach her how to walk and hold herself._

It was a stupid thought. Eugenia was the last person Lilith should choose as a role model. Better that she follow in her father's footsteps. 

Harry shook his head. She was only fifteen. She had plenty of time to achieve maturity. And he had no right to assess her as if she were a woman grown. 

_Bit early for a mid-life crisis, Potter._

Something stirred at the doorway. Harry looked up, thinking that the guard had returned, but there was no one there. He rose from his chair to check the corridor, which was completely deserted. There was a whisper of air in the ward, a rustle of paper and the swish of an Invisibility Cloak. Harry grabbed his wand, but the intruder Disapparated with a pop, leaving a piece of parchment on his chair. 

_Not everything is about you, Potter_, the note read, _Severus Snape has many enemies and one daughter. You complete the equation._   


_to be continued_


End file.
